Young Justice Origins: Batman
by SUPERSTITIOUS AND COWARDLY
Summary: I am vengeance. I am the night. I am - Batman.


**Author's Note: **This is an origins story for Batman. I decided I wanted to write this story because Batman's rise to heroism has always been a topic I'd like to explore. I thought it would be interesting to chronicle the events that turned Bruce Wayne, the son of a famous doctor and heir to the family's vast inheritance, into Batman. I decided I wanted to approach the origin from an early age, before Bruce's parents (spoiler alert) die. My goal for this story is to try and tell a realistic and original origin for the Dark Knight.

Thank you for reading this if you have. I hope you enjoy the story. Reviews are always appreciated, but of course not mandatory.

* * *

**A Mask for a Boy**

August 28, 1988

August was summer's swansong, and the thinning days signaled that autumn was on its doorstep. The afternoon was dripping with hues of gold, the trees ablaze with shades of auburn, amber, and shamrock. Hurried leaves that had fallen too early for September to claim carpeted the ground like a painter's brush over a blank palette.

It was here on the porch of Wayne manor that three children, Bruce, Elizabeth, and Thomas, listened carefully to Alfred Pennyworth, the faithful butler of the Waynes, finish a tale of the gallant Grey Ghost.

"… And with a mighty swing of his fist… pow!" Alfred motioned a punch at the air that caused Bruce and Elizabeth to jump in their seats. "The Cloaked Caper had been defeated. The Grey Ghost, now vindicated of the crime, was celebrated as the hero who saved Gotham from utter destruction. He returned to his abode under the guise of night, tired but vigilant, knowing that when Gotham needed him again, he'd be there. Watching, waiting, protecting." He smiled and sat back in his seat. "And that is the story of the Grey Ghost and the Cloaked Caper."

"Tell us another story about the Grey Ghost, Alfred!"

At ten years old, Bruce was already a spitting image of his father. His eyes, two dark brown spheres set beneath low brows, were like those of a lion's: fierce, proud, passionate. His short black hair had been properly combed and glossed, and glinted when the sun reflected off its surface. His jaw line was well pronounced like his father's, and his chin, square in shape, had the beginnings of a shallow cleft. Undoubtedly he was a true successor to the Wayne name, at least when appearances were of concern.

Quirking a brow at his young master's impatience, Alfred merely chuckled and patted him gently on the head. "Perhaps another time Master Bruce. Supper is just about ready, and your father wouldn't want me to keep you from it." Though his receding hairline and graying whiskers were an indication that his youth was fast disappearing, Alfred held himself at such a high constitution that most would take him for a decade younger. Slim and imperially built, like a proper English butler should be, he carried an aura of dignified subservience that his superiors had to respect.

"Now run along, children," he continued. "Your parents are sure to be waiting for you in the dining hall."

"But Alfred!" Elizabeth protested in unison with Bruce, frowning and throwing her arms over her chest. "We want to hear more! After all, the Grey Ghost is just so exciting!"

"Now Miss Elizabeth, as happy as I am that you show such great interest in the Grey Ghost -"

"Oh please tell us more, please!" she interrupted. "I don't want to go to supper, I just want to listen to another story!"

Like Bruce, Elizabeth was ten years old. She hailed from England, though her current residence was in the States with her mother, Veronica Chambers, who was negotiating a business merger between Wayne Industries and Chambers Corp. Similar to most girls her age, Elizabeth was pretty and sprightly, and above all very curious. Certainly she'd make a fine wife for Bruce, Alfred teased, much to the former's annoyance.

"There will be plenty of time for story-telling in the future, Miss Elizabeth," said Alfred, hoping to end the conversation there.

"But I won't be back until next week!"

"And that will make hearing the story _that_ much more rewarding."

"Well I thought it was _stupid_," muttered another boy sitting beside Bruce, whose untucked suit, unbuttoned placket, and loosened cuffs hinted at a disdain for sophisticated (though he'd say 'uncomfortable') clothing. "I mean, what kind of a guy just runs around town in a costume and beats up criminals in their free time? It's stupid."

"_His_, free time, Mister Thomas."

"What?"

"The correct grammatical terminology would be 'beats up criminals in _his_ free time."

Thomas rolled his eyes and dismissed the verbal amendment. "Yeah, whatever."

"Tommy," Bruce grinned, playfully ringing his arm around his friend's neck. "That doesn't really count. You think _everything_ is stupid."

Thomas Elliot was an impetuous boy, though some would call it mere precociousness. He was raised in abject poverty by his mother, a frail, passive woman whose occupation led to his conception. It was a background that would shame him until the day he died. It was only thanks to his mother's "beautiful cheekbones", as his father said, that she married Francis Elliot, a wealthy entrepreneur who brought Thomas into high society. However, it would not change his attitude, nor would it change his undying hatred for his parents.

"What's your point, Bruce?" Thomas retorted sharply, eyeing his friend with minor irritation.

"My point is that we can't take your opinion seriously, since there isn't _anything_ you like."

"I like money."

"You and the rest of the bloody world, Tommy," Elizabeth joked.

"Well, if that's all there is to say, I shall take my leave," said Alfred, motioning to get up.

"But Alfre-!" Bruce and Elizabeth were silenced before the words could exit their mouths.

"Uh uh uh," Alfred scolded, wagging his index finger back and forth as a mild reprimand. "I will hear no buts about it. The only place your bottoms should be is in the dining hall."

"But we're not hungry Alfred," said Bruce as he rubbed his stomach. "We ate so many peaches at the orchard. Can't you just tell us one more story?"

"Yes, we're _really_ full," Elizabeth added. "Honest!"

"Hungry or not, it is rude to be late to an event, especially to one with guests." Getting out of his seat, Alfred finished, "I have other errands to attend to, so I must be off. I shall see you later in the evening should my schedule permit it. Afterwards, I would be glad to regale you with another tale of the Grey Ghost." He smiled, then bowed. "Miss Elizabeth, Mister Thomas, Master Bruce."

And then he was gone.

* * *

"I hope Alfred will tell us more about the Grey Ghost after dinner," said Elizabeth, walking by Bruce's side down the hall, her hands clasped together dreamingly against her chest. "He's so heroic and strong and… and _brave_."

"Yeah, he's pretty great," said Bruce, who seemed to be in the same faraway state as Elizabeth. "Alfred always tells me a story about the Grey Ghost before I go to bed, every night. It helps me go to sleep."

"It must be nice to have a servant who tells bedtime stories to you," she hummed, kicking the floor with the sole of her foot. "_My _servant never tells me _anything _before I go to sleep."

Perhaps the word butler sounded less demeaning, and less subverting, than the word servant, but either way, Bruce didn't like the latter. It sounded too much like a man who was another's lesser, and if there was anything Alfred wasn't, it was a lesser man. "Alfred isn't a servant, he's a butler," Bruce defended, almost ardent that Elizabeth be able to differentiate between the two.

"Butler, servant, aren't they the same thing?"

"No, they're totally different!"

She blinked at his outburst, then cocked her head to the side. "How so?"

He didn't have an answer for her. "They just are."

"But they do the same exact things. They both clean the house, they both tuck you to bed, they both -" Now seeing Bruce's uncomfortableness with the topic, she decided not to pursue the conversation further. Instead, Elizabeth returned to swooning after the Grey Ghost. "Do you think the Grey Ghost would save me if I were in trouble?"

"Well, of course," said Bruce. "He saves everyone who's in trouble."

"I can just imagine him now, swooping in on a line, whisking me up in his arms…"

"It's all made up you know," Thomas said suddenly, snapping Elizabeth out of her daydream. "The Grey Ghost isn't actually real. He's just a make believe character adults tell little kids to entertain them, like Santa."

"What do you mean?" asked Elizabeth as she stopped dead in place, her light expression decomposing to horror.

"What do you mean what do I mean? He's a fake! A phony! A fairy tale! He's _not real._"

"So Santa's… not real?"

Thomas blinked, not thinking that Elizabeth of all people still believed in that old fairy tale. "Uh…" he began, searching carefully for the right response to defuse the situation delicately, not that it would matter since he'd already dropped the bomb. "Well, I mean, strictly speaking, Santa's not… _exactly_ real."

Elizabeth looked like she was about to cry. Her brows were furrowed, and her eyes, which once reflected blue sapphires off their surface, looked now more like leaky faucets ready to burst.

"Good job, Tommy," Bruce whispered. "Way to make her cry."

"Hey, it's not my fault she doesn't know Santa isn't real!" he responded loudly, not even attempting to conceal his voice.

"You should have known better than to say something like that."

"Known better? What am I supposed to be, a psychic? How should I know she thinks Santa's still real?"

"You should have been more careful with what you said is all I'm saying!" He sighed. "Well, the least you could do now is say you're sorry."

Thomas conceded, but not happily. "Fine, whatever. It's still not my fault though."

But before he could apologize to Elizabeth, the girl broke out with a wide smile and an abrupt, "Gotch'a!"

The boys exchanged confused glances, then stared puzzledly at their friend.

"You should have seen the looks on your faces! You actually believed I was going to cry."

"Well when you _look_ like you're going to cry, then yeah," replied Thomas, still utterly confused about what was going on.

"I was just playing with the two of you, I know Santa's not real," Elizabeth stated matter-of-factly, her hands gathered on the small of her back. She swayed her hips back and forth, her frilled dress skirting over the surface of the marble floor. "I can't believe I managed to fool you two! You actually thought I was going to cry, didn't you?"

Bruce flexed his right cheek and narrowed his gaze. "That wasn't very nice, Elizabeth. You actually had us worried."

"'Had _me _worried'," corrected Thomas with an unamused glower. "I wasn't worried at all."

"It was just a little joke, Bruce, no harm done." Elizabeth waved her hand to gesture that the two keep walking with her, lest they be late for supper. "Come on, let's go!"

Elizabeth was an intelligent girl, but different than the way Thomas was an intelligent boy. Although she was manipulative, she didn't have Thomas' natural sense of instincts or street smarts. However, when it came to raw knowledge, memorization, and postulation, she had him beat. Already she'd learned more or less the layout of the Wayne manor, despite only being there three or four times.

"Um, the dining hall _is_ down this way, right?"

Again, more or less.

"That's to the drawing room," said Bruce. "The dining hall's this way. Come on."

"Oh, okay." Watching Bruce and Thomas walk off without her, she called out, "Hey, wait for me, Bruce, Tommy!" and hurried over to their sides.

* * *

"… And so I turned to the man and said, 'married to her, I hardly even know her!'"

The dining hall was alight with the roar of laughter. It was a large, open space that was designed more for fanciful balls than simple dinner arrangements; the room was as ornate as it was exorbitant. A high domed roof that reached its apex in the center of the room adorned the ceiling, and engravings handcrafted from skilled artisans trimmed the porcelain white walls, creating a mural on the frieze that rivaled those of a Greek temple's. Checkered marble stone dashed the floor, and the wonderful acoustics, which would be perfect for an orchestra, turned even the slightest of echoes into a bellow.

At the head of the table were Martha and Thomas Wayne, the owners of the manor, and to their right sat Francis and Georgia Elliot. To their left was James Gordon, and old friend of Thomas, and just next to him were Veronica Chambers and her elder daughter Heather. Last but not least, next to Ms. Elliot, were Victor and Nora Fries, scientists who worked in the Wayne Industries laboratory.

"So, Gordon," continued Francis as he leaned back into his chair, circling the liquid in his wine glass. "Where's the wife? Too busy with the kids or just not interested in spending the night with the peanut gallery?"

Gordon was younger than most at the table, but his time on the force had aged him considerably, and already wrinkles had formed in places where most men considered them signs of middle age. He was grizzled in appearance and gruff in voice, though at the same time delicate and nurturing. Bruce always thought of him as a step-father, and Gordon, since he had no children, thought of him as a son.

"You know me, Francis," he replied with a good-natured smirk. "If I had any kids, do you think I'd hang out with a bunch of nobodies like you?"

His comment provided another round of laughter.

"I keep forgetting that you don't have any kids," said Francis. "You should get on that. Pretty soon you won't have enough time to do it. You know, with all that field work as _Commissioner _Gordon_._"

There was a unanimous "here here" of approval for James, and everyone lifted his glass to toast the soon to be Commissioner.

Gordon nearly blushed behind the façade of a stone face. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm not Commissioner yet."

"Well if you find a man better suited for the job, then by all means, show him to me!" Francis smiled and downed his glass of wine in a single gulp. "Face it, James, you're the best cop Gotham's had in years. There isn't another man on Earth I'd rather have watching my back. I'm sure – no – I _know_ all of us would feel a whole lot safer walking the streets with you in charge."

"Not to mention you deserve it, James," Thomas added, affectionately patting his friend on the shoulder. "How long has it been now, fifteen years? You've been on the force so long you're already starting to grey."

"If anyone's aging it's you, Tom. Hell, you're starting to look like a skunk!" he joked, pointing at the line of white hair that ran vertically down an otherwise black mane. The two laughed together, and when the commotion had died down, Gordon stated, "But really, thanks for all the support. I don't think I'd have made it here without friends like you."

"Of course you would," said Thomas. "You'd just have had fewer fancy dinner parties bloating that gut of yours." He placed his hand on Gordon's slight pot belly, to which the detective slapped away with a chuckle, which garnered another bout of laughter from the table.

"It's so nice to see you back in Gotham, James," said Martha once everyone was quiet again. "What was it like, over in Chicago I mean?"

"It certainly wasn't pretty, I can tell you that," he replied. "Being stationed there for two years was like being stuck in an empty well you jumped into to find water. Should have looked before I leapt."

"Why'd you take the job in the first place?" asked Francis.

Gordon's body seemed to visibly tighten at the question. Swallowing a nerve, he explained, "There was a serial killer in Chicago with a similar M.O. to a guy I booked here in Gotham. Whenever he killed his victims, he'd leave a clue behind along with one of the victim's ears. The guys down in Chicago were stumped; they had no idea who it was. He'd already killed five people and was ready to snag his sixth. The CPD asked me if I could help, said I had experience with a case like this. I agreed and went over there as soon as I could."

"What happened? Did you catch him?"

"Yeah, we eventually caught the bastard," he said, his voice suddenly becoming very somber as he rested his chin on his steepled fingers. "But he managed to kill two more in the time it took us to find him. His last victim was a kid, a _kid_." He reiterated the last part in disbelief. "We caught him just after he'd killed him. And even though we got him off the streets, it felt like an empty victory. Putting this guy in an asylum wasn't going to bring back any of the family's loved ones. It wasn't going to bring that kid back." He sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes… sometimes criminals like those make me really wonder how much longer I can take this."

There was an overwhelming hush that swallowed the room whole.

"I'm so sorry James," Martha apologized once she'd waited long enough for the gravity of the event to sink in, consolingly attempting to reach out to the man. "I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you. I didn't mean to open up any old wounds."

"It's fine, Martha," he answered. "I knew the risks when I joined. I should be the one apologizing, killing the mood and all." He feigned a smile, but even a child could see through it.

"Hey, Victor, you've been awfully quiet tonight," Francis chirped to get the conversation rolling again. "What've you been thinking about? Something to do with your ice machine."

Victor Fries, a tall, spindly man, had a long face, a high forehead, a distinctive nose, and most noticeably, two calm, gentle blue eyes. He was by far the thinnest at the table, pale to the point of looking sickly, and his naturally high cheek bones protruded in a way that almost made him skeletal. That, coupled with his sunken in cheeks, created a gaunt appearance that made him easily discernible in a crowd.

"No," he answered plainly, his tone monotonous and relaxed. "I've been thinking about you."

"Gosh, I'm flattered, really, but in case you didn't notice, I'm a married man." He put his hand on Georgia's and grinned. "So sorry."

Victor reciprocated a slight half smile. "Not in that way. I've been thinking about your new product."

"What, Miraclo?"

"Miraclo? Really, Frank?" Thomas teased. "The next time Wayne Industries makes a product, I should just name it Fantasmagasm. That'll definitely ring in the shareholders."

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

"I didn't know you were about to create another drug," said Martha. "What does Miraclo do?"

"Well, think about it like this. You want to get fit fast? Miraclo's the way to do it. It makes building muscles easier, but not like steroids. Miraclo's completely legal and doesn't build muscle beyond your peak fitness level. It also doesn't have any health side effects, and it's completely useless unless you also exercise, too."

"Wow, that sure _does _sound like a miracle," added Thomas. "When will it be out?"

"Next spring, if everything goes according to plan. It'll be an over the counter drug, so it'll be sold in most pharmacies around the nation." Turning his attention to the scientist, he asked, "So what did you want to know about it, Fries?" then poured himself another round of vintage red wine.

Victor, who patiently waited while the others conversed without a pang of annoyance for being interrupted, said, "I was reading an article about Miraclo in this month's _Nature_, and noticed that one of the components in the drug is triptocaine."

Anything that ended in –caine made Gordon's ears perk to attention, and for good reason. "That sounds – sketchy."

"Triptocaine is manufactured in a process similar to cocaine," replied Victor. "However, it is not harmful to the body, nor does it have any addictive properties. It has been declared legal by the DEA."

"I know all this. What's your point, Victor?" Francis prompted, slightly annoyed by the way he dragged this out.

"It can, however, reduce a person's emotional being when coupled with acetylene, another compound in Miraclo, as well as alter it."

"That's one of the warnings on the label, yeah. I stamped it on myself. And?"

"And according to the article, your clinical testing trials only lasted for six months."

"Yeah, we got lucky. The drug was perfectly compatible with every patient that took it. Everything went well. No reactions. Case closed. It happens." It almost seemed as if Francis was trying to dodge the topic.

"It does happen, but very rarely. However, many of my coworkers at the department wonder whether or not Miraclo has been tested enough to prove safe for the average user, if used once a day as prescribed on the bottle."

"Tested enough to… Are you saying that I haven't tested my drug carefully enough?"

Despite being a member of high society, Francis Elliot was notoriously known for having a temper as well as a drinking problem. Though he and Thomas were friends, there were many instances where the latter threw him out of events on account of being too inebriated to even walk straight. In addition, the rumors surrounding his son's bruises and their origins, which the billionaire dismissed with disgust, raised many eyebrows, especially those of high society.

"I am merely speaking on behalf of the department."

"So they don't think I tested it carefully enough?"

"No, I don't believe they do."

"And it's all because I managed to finish clinical trials in six months?"

"Yes."

He laughed in disbelief. "Jesus Christ, you just can't win, can you? Take too long and everyone thinks your drug is moot. Take too short and everyone thinks you tampered with the trials. Guess I didn't fall into the 'specific amount of time spent creating a drug to avoid being questioned like a liar' section."

"The department doesn't believe you're a criminal."

"No, they just believe I'm making shit up."

"I don't think the department…"

"Stop hiding behind the department bullshit. It's a terrible excuse." Francis paused and thinned his stark gaze. "What do _you_ think?"

Victor didn't answer immediately. "I am… skeptical."

"Victor, please," whispered his wife. "Let's not start another incident tonight. All this fussing is giving me a headache."

"I'm sorry Nora. I only meant to discern whether the drug was safe or not from the source."

"And I'm telling you it is. So you can waltz on back to the lab and tell all your egghead friends that the man who made the drug, and not just a bunch of scientists with their heads stuck up their asses, says it's 100 and 10% safe," snapped Francis.

"Perhaps," replied Victor, whose aggravation at the last comment overrode the caution Nora had given him. "Or I could tell them the man in charge of the drug went to great lengths to prove his innocence."

"_Innocence_?" Francis burst into an uncontrollable fit of forced laughter. "What, am I a _criminal_ now? Well it looks like you have one more booking tonight, Gordon! Apparently it's a crime for trying to make the world a better place!"

"Francis, sweetie, why don't we all try to calm down?" Georgia started, only to be shut up with a threatening glower.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to, woman."

"Frank…" said Thomas, but his voice was drowned out by the other's rising bravado.

"You listen here iceman and you listen good," he growled. "My company spent seven years creating this drug. _Seven. Years._ We went by the books on every single step, _especially_ clinical testing. If you think for a _second_ that we cut corners, then you don't know -!"

"I don't know what, Francis? That maybe you decided it was easier to falsify evidence than it was to start all the way back from the drawing board?"

"You piece of shit," he spat, the veins on the side of his head now bulging with the pulse of his high blood pressure. "How _dare _you accuse me like that? Who the hell do you think you are?!"

"Do you remember the last time a man was in charge of a company that released an improperly tested drug? Stephen Howard? He went to jail for life for tampering with the data of his drug Neocare. His negligence killed over six dozen people."

"So what?"

"So, as a friend, I don't want you to make the same mistake. Seven years of time and millions of dollars wasted are better than a lifetime in jail."

"Don't tell me what's better, iceman. It's my company, my money, and _my drug_!"

"And _your_ son who will be without a father for the rest of his life."

That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back. You could discredit a man's worth, a man's integrity, and a man's intelligence, but the moment you spoke ill about his son, you were in for a world of hurt. "You leave my son out of it Fries! You -"

"Francis, Victor, enough!" Thomas shouted to quiet the two. There was a momentary pause of collective surprise after his outburst, which he followed up with more words of reproach. "For God's sakes, you're grown men, yet you're arguing like children!"

"Tom…"

"I don't want to hear another word about it, Francis," he retorted pointedly. "Either you two patch things up or both of you are gone. This is my household, and you _will _abide by my rules." His unaggressive voice and physique were both opposites of the fact that, despite his gentle nature, he was as much a lion as every other Wayne that came before him.

Following the ultimatum, silent apologies were given between parties, begrudgingly no doubt, and the forced eye contact between Victor and Francis cemented a momentary peace between the two lines.

With the crisis averted, Thomas exhaled sharply and sat back down, thanking inwardly that ten years of having a son had strengthened his patience. "Good. Now, has anyone seen Bruce and the other children?"

"We're coming, dad!"

* * *

For the remainder of the night, Francis and Victor shared no words of reconciliation. When one looked in the other's direction, the other would look away. On the off chance they made eye contact, there would be a frozen second of the two glaring spitefully at one another followed by a return to normalcy.

Thomas Elliot knew something was amiss but was the wiser to leave all stones turned. Asking questions usually got you in trouble; he knew from past experience. Bruce on the other hand remained entirely oblivious. He was receiving too much attention from Gordon and Victor and his own father to take into account that something had happened.

"Hey, look at you, tiger! Look at how much you've grown! God, I can hardly recognize you anymore! Ah come here," said James as he affectionately scooped Bruce into a bear hug, helped him into his seat, and finally mussed his meticulously combed hair (a gesture that made his mother wince). "It's good to see you again, Bruce. How've you been?"

Bruce laughed and instinctively raised his shoulders when touched, as he was particularly ticklish. He always considered the detective an uncle and loved him like one too. "I've been well Mr. Gordon, thank you for asking."

"School hasn't been too rough on you?"

"Not any rougher than usual."

"Eating healthy too?"

"Mom and dad won't let me go a day without drinking three cups of milk." He rolled his eyes.

"We think it's very important that he have a healthy diet while he's growing," said Martha as she maternally placed a hand on Bruce' shoulder.

"That's good. Keep on drinking milk and you'll be as strong as your old man!" Glancing at Elizabeth, Gordon grinned, turned back to Bruce, then said, "Say, remember when you told me you were looking for a girlfriend? Are you still searching?" Tweaking his eyebrows twice, he slanted his head in the direction of the girl and continued, "Or have you already found one?"

It didn't take a genius to recognize that Elizabeth was attractive, and despite Bruce being at the age where he thought girls were still "icky", he couldn't deny that his friend was unnaturally beautiful. Her blonde tresses were like golden locks spun from a seamstress, silky yet natural. Her skin was milky white and immaculate, not a bruise or scratch or blemish to tarnish her complexion. She always smelled of luxurious citrus perfume, not the dime store brand that teenagers sprayed excessively when they wanted to attract a prom date. It was subtle, like a dab of wine on the lips, yet enchanting nonetheless. In a few years she would blossom into a gorgeous young woman, but for now, Bruce merely thought of her as a friend.

And certainly _not _a girlfriend.

Bruce's face flushed light pink. "M-Mr. Gordon!" he stammered, recoiling in mild shock. "Elizabeth and I are just friends! She's not my _girlfriend_! That's gross!"

The entire table, save for Bruce, Thomas Elliot, and Elizabeth, laughed at his innocence.

"Why is that funny?" Elizabeth whispered to Thomas Elliot in the midst of the laughter.

"I don't know, grown-ups are idiots," he replied back.

"Ah Bruce, you never told me you wanted a girlfriend," said Thomas Wayne as he wrapped an arm around his son's outer shoulder, bringing him closer. "I might have been able to help you."

"That's because I was like eight, dad!"

James' mirth turned to realization as his mouth took the shape of a perfect o. "Oh, that reminds me!" he said suddenly, fishing into his pocket for something, a box. "I've been meaning to give this to you. Saw it in Chicago and thought it'd be the perfect gift for you."

"What is it Mr. Gordon? Is it a -?"

"Ha-ha, not just yet. Close your eyes and put out your hand," he said. Once Bruce did as he was told, Gordon took out the box, put it in Bruce's hand, and smiled. "Good. Now you can open them."

Gordon's callused digits untied themselves like the wirings of a bow around a present, revealing the small black box to Bruce. "Open it, Bruce," he urged with a nod of his head. "Go on, don't be shy."

As soon as Bruce did so, his face contorted in such a manner that it looked like he'd just opened the Ark of the Covenant.

"Happy birthday kiddo," said Gordon. "Er, I mean – well – I _meant_ to get it to you for your birthday, but I thought it'd be better if I delivered it by hand than by ma-…"

If you could Bruce in that one moment, it was that he was lost for words, yet the boy had enough spirit in him to cut off Gordon before he could fully explain himself. "Oh my God. Oh my God, is this… the _real _mask?! This can't be the real mask! Oh my God!"

"Bruce, oh my _gosh_," his mother tried to instruct.

"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!"

"Wow James, where'd you pick up a beauty like that?" asked his father as he peered over his son's shoulder, rubbing his chin inquisitively.

"From the guy himself."

Thomas' face twisted in confusion. "Douglas Fairbanks? He's been dead over fifty years."

"Well, from his son. At first he said the mask wasn't for sale, but then I told him a good friend of mine loved his father's movies, _worshiped_ them." Gordon's eyes calmed over Bruce's ecstatic expression, and he knew deep down he would have paid ten times the price just to see him this way. _  
_

"It must have cost you a small fortune. Are you sure you can -?" Thomas reached into his pocket, his hand on his wallet, but Gordon deferred him before he could say any more.

"Please, Tom," he said. "It's a gift, not a trade. Money's no issue to me. I'm just glad to see him happy."

Thomas was still, then relented and smiled. "Alright, James," he replied. "You win this time."

"Just remember, the next time you open a hospital, you're naming it after me." He beamed a warm, familiar smile and returned to watching Bruce bask in his happiness.

"This _is _the real mask! Oh my God, thank you Mr. Gordon! Thank you _so_ much!" Poor Bruce was so excited he nearly forgot to breathe.

"Real mask?" reiterated Elizabeth to no one in particular, though Thomas Elliot heard her.

"The heck if I know. It looks like a handkerchief to me."

But it wasn't a handkerchief. It wasn't a bolt of cloth. It wasn't a piece of silk with two slits cut out in its middle. It wasn't a bandana, or a hankie, or a neckerchief, or anything like that. It was a mask, the mask of a silent guardian, a watchful protector - a dark knight.

The Mask of Zorro.

* * *

I brainfarted towards the ends. Blah. I need to work on that later. Anyway, thanks for reading. All reviews are greatly appreciated.


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